


can't breathe, can't avoid it

by boybinary



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Domestic Violence, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, sad sad sad lots of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boybinary/pseuds/boybinary
Summary: chan always tried his best.(his best was not enough for his father but it was okay, because for minghao and junhui, it was more than enough.)





	can't breathe, can't avoid it

**Author's Note:**

> cws: explicit homophobia (language and behaviour), domestic abuse, graphic depictions of violence, injury  
> so there wasn't any junhaochan/chinaline x chan on ao3 and that's not rlly okay imo so here ya go 
> 
> title from o sole mio by sf9

His parents had always told him he was their angel boy. _You’re our beautiful angel boy, Chan. Our little baby. The best child we’ve ever had._ “I'm your only child, mommy, daddy,” he’d laugh, raising his arms so they would pick him up and spin him in circles until he was dizzy and they were dizzy (but they’re all smiling and laughing so it’s okay if they’re a little dizzy, right). And then the icecream truck would come ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-donging down the street and he’d beg (“Please please please puh-lease can I have one, I’m sooooo hungry, eomma, appa,”) and they’d buy him _one_ (“Fine, but you can only get one, Channie,”) ice-cream bar from the nice ajusshi and he would sit on the seesaw with his eomma and eat his strawberry icecream.

When he is four, he starts kindergarten. He is four and when he starts kindergarten he is the best student in his class and all his teachers praise him; for printing neatly, for singing loudly, for being kind and getting along with all the kids. The list goes on and on and on and when they get home from the _parent-teacher interviews_ , his parents coo things like _that’s my angel boy, mm?_ and he gets lots of hugs and kisses on the cheek (cheek kisses are the _special kind_ ) and his parents let him watch Michael Jackson videos on the big TV. He is four, and he loves Michael Jackson, and he is their beautiful angel boy.

When he is six and the leaves crunch beneath his feet, he starts Grade 1. He is only _six years old_ but he can count up to twenty and add and subtract without using his fingers. He is six, he likes to dance, and he knows all the Michael Jackson songs by heart. But when he is six his teachers become meaner; they aren’t as nice as they were in kindergarten, and they snap at him when he asks things like when they would be having naptime, if he could sit out because he was tired (his chest tight and breath coming like the wind from cracks in the walls)— and always _politely_ as his eomma had taught him. But because he is an angel child, he tries hard, and he learns how to write small in one-lines rather than big in two-lines, and he is at the top of his class (like always). He is six years old and he has lots of friends and he smiles a lot and laughs even more and he gets good grades given grudgingly by his mean Grade 1 teachers because he is _just_ that good.

When he is eleven, he struggles for the first time. He is in Grade 5 and he is still at the top of their class (he thinks) but now he’s learning about things like multiplication and mental math and long division and he doesn’t do it fast enough because everyone is getting up to hand their in test papers and he erases hard and there’s a loud _riiip_ and a lump rises in his throat. He’s in Grade 5 and he doesn’t _get_ that weird math with letters instead of numbers, but he pretends he does and his teacher is nicer than his Grade 1 and 2 and 3 teachers combined so she helps him along (coddles him) and this is the first time he doesn’t feel like an angel boy because everyone else gets it but he doesn’t, and that makes him hide the homework gradings where he gets everything right but that _al-ge-bra_. The papers are probably still at the bottom of that drawer, marked up with blue pen. He hides it well though, he hides the papers well; his friends stay his friends, and he stays his parents’ beautiful angel boy. (If only in name.)

He is twelve. It’s the last year he has in the school, the school he’s been in since kindergarten before they move to the big schools where the big kids in Grade 7 and Grade 8 and Grade 9 study. It’s hot because it’s almost summer and it’s too hot to play soccer and but it's too hot to just sit on the metal benches overlooking the baseball diamond, the ones with a little bit of rust along the edges. It’s hot and everyone is tired so they buy slushies from the ice cream cart and sit and talk about fond memories of Grade 6. Some of the boys try to flirt with the pretty high school girls but the girls never glance their way, too busy in smiling their pretty smiles and applying lip gloss to make their pretty smiles even prettier. Yeri laughs and her electric green slushie slops out of the cup and lands beside the big red rust patch on the bench— Chan doesn’t remember exactly what was said but what he does remember is the catcalls when they see Seungcheol-hyung and a person with long brown hair walk out of the high school doors, linked by the palms (and Seungcheol-hyung laughs a little, deep and rumbly, reaching up to fix the other person’s tie, and when _the other person_ leans forward, eyes crinkled and teeth all showing, Seungcheol-hyung doesn’t see anything (not the swishing skirts of the girls sashaying out of the school) but _the other person_ and something coils deep in twelve-year old Chan’s gut). He’s not sure why he remembers it but if you were to ask him to draw it, or act it out today, he could do it, and you would feel the soft summery wind on your face (and you would see, two people, one with long hair and one with short and _both_ wearing dark grey slacks, completely immersed in one another (the girls looking on, lined eyes wide)). 

When he is fourteen and a bit and he is going to be in high school the following autumn his dad gets a promotion and they have to move to _China_ , where people speak _Chinese_ and they don’t speak Korean and everything is new and exciting and strange. Everything would be new and exciting and strange and Chan _likes_ new and exciting and strange, so at the time, he is excited. He is excited because he’s never been to another country, hell, he’s never been on a plane— but soon the excitement fades and he stares out of the small oval window of the plane wondering where it all went. The house was put up for sale, he’d said his goodbyes to all his friends, and he’d exchanged KKT ids with at least five girls (three of which he’s never held conversation with). He’d spent the rest of that summer in his bedroom, electrical fan cranked to the highest setting, windows wide open, poring over how-to-speak-Mandarin manuals, and he learns it fast— he’d never really had trouble with anything, other than his algebra in 5th grade so in one summer he learns to speak and read and write Chinese. He is fourteen, he’s a Korean headed on a plane headed to China and he is now their beautiful angel boy that can speak Chinese _and_ Korean.

When he is fourteen and a half and he’s in high school he finds himself walking down the street with skirts swishing around his legs clothed with cheap slacks (instead of plain khaki-coloured pants), black knee-length skirts hemmed in red and cream and white blouses pinned shut with patterned red bows (that come off the moment the teacher dismisses the last class of the day, cracking open the buttons and sidling along with the ‘popular’ boys of the school—

He is fourteen and finds that he has more female friends than male friends (it’s... nice to have friends) but the girls don’t really talk to him, just sit next to him and stare at him and show him off “He’s _Korean_ , can you believe it?” and he just smiles and smiles and smiles. (But) He’d really like some male friends to talk sports and video games with and he’d really like some male friends to play sports and play video games with. But— it’s okay. He’d rather girls that don’t speak to him than nothing at all. But he watches, almost enviously, when the other boys in his class make plans to go play basketball after school, when the other boys in his class take out their game consoles and play during class (even if he knows and they know and everyone knows you’re not supposed to do that). (He wants to _belong_.)

When he is almost fifteen his grades begin to drop and high school teachers aren’t as nice as middle school or elementary school teachers (that’s expected though) and when he asks for help he stutters over the Chinese words that he had studied so hard over and his hands shake as he looks down at the _mediocre_ marks on his papers. His mother tells him it’s okay but it’s _not_ , it’s _not okay_ , it’s not it’s not _it’s not_ and he cries into his dinosaur patterned pillow until the sky is dark and he climbs up to study because it can’t (cannot, under any circumstance) happen again.

(It happens again. It happens, a _lot_ , over and over— again.)

And soon he is not at the top of his class (never was when he moved to Shanghai, admittedly) and it’s hard to be the top of his class when he doesn’t understand some of the things his teachers say (except for math, it’s numbers and Latin letters so that’s easy to understand but history and biology and Chinese literature— he _can’t_ , he doesn’t understand it) and he doesn’t want to ask the girls for help because that might ruin his reputation, their view of him, the nice intelligent amazing handsome foreign student. He doesn’t, so he studies with one tab open to Google Translate and a Chinese-Korean dictionary on his desk, hands shaking as he pencils in the characters (eraser down to a nub, worksheets worn thin where he writes the character ugly.

When he is fifteen he makes friends with a beautiful boy named Xu Minghao who speaks beautiful flowing Chinese and has beautiful red hair like the setting sun and is just beautiful in general, in the way he treats people, in the way is just _is_ and you wonder how Chan was privileged enough to meet someone so beautiful, to be friends with someone so beautiful (he wonders that too) but he is _friends_ with Xu Minghao and Xu Minghao _treats_ him like a friend, not like the girls who just showed him off because he’s from another country. Xu Minghao is kind and smart and good at explaining things and Xu Minghao doesn’t judge you when you rip up your homework because it doesn’t make sense, only runs to the library to make a copy of his own for you to complete because it’s due the next day. Xu Minghao is popular and has a lot of friends and Chan feels a little sad sometimes because he used to be like that, surrounded by a lot of friends but he doesn’t blame Minghao at all and sits quietly as he chats animatedly with his friends. Minghao’s friends don’t treat him like trash, and that’s enough for him.

But even though Xu Minghao has a lot of friends he never throws Chan aside. He never ever _ever_ does and when he tells a joke and Chan doesn’t understand it he doesn’t laugh at Chan, he _never_ laughs at Chan. When Minghao tells a joke and he doesn’t understand he begins to curl in on himself because all of Minghao’s Chinese friends laugh but the first time it happened Minghao noticed, and Minghao stopped laughing and gripped Chan’s fingers until they hurt and explained the joke in broken (very broken, Chan doesn’t understand most of it but still— _still_ ) Korean. It’s the first time someone other than his parents spoke Korean to him in China, so Chan is surprised when it happens. (He asks why, how, _what_ —) Then Minghao smiles his beautiful smile and explains that he wants to communicate better with his _best friend_ so he began to learn Korean.

(Chan almost cries. He almost cries because no one has ever called him their best friend. He didn’t know what it was like to have a best friend and he didn’t know what it was like to be a best friend to someone.)

When he turns sixteen Minghao throws him a huge party and he does cry when he comes home from the library at 6 pm because he sees a bunch of dead people sprawled over his living room but he finds that they’re not actually dead, just sleeping because when he shakes his best friend’s shoulder Minghao wakes with a snort. Then he screams “my _God_ — oh, it’s you, Chan!” and his eyes widen before he slings his arms around Chan’s neck and yells “Happy sixteenth birthday, Channie!” really loudly and everyone wakes up and it’s a chorus of “Happy birthday, Chan!”

A few hours later they’re playing truth or dare and some pretty girl in Chan’s math class dares Minghao to kiss the person most important to him in the room and she is one of Minghao’s best friends, Chan knows, one hand on Minghao’s knee and leaning forward expectantly— so you can’t blame Chan, you can’t blame him for being surprised when Minghao leans over and pecks him on the corner of his lip. The room silences.

Chan flees.

Over the next week Minghao tries to talk to him but Chan always runs away when he catches sight of the boy’s brightly coloured sunset hair. But on Thursday he’s studying at the library and it’s 8 pm and Minghao bursts through the library doors, sopping wet, and catches Chan’s eye. He’s got too many books to tidy but Minghao’s glare burns into his skull so he does what he does best— picks himself up and rushes into the restrooms, hands shaking as he locks the cubicle and shoes slipping as he climbs onto the lid of the toilet.

“Chan!” Minghao’s voice reverberates in the empty restroom and it’s angry, it’s so so so angry and disappointed and tired and Chan shakes so hard the toilet lid shakes beneath his shoes. _Please don’t please don’t please don’t pleasedon’tplease_ , he chants silently. _Please don’t do this to me_.

When he is sixteen, he discovers he has feelings for a boy.

Minghao rattles the door. “Chan... Channie, please, come out... I want to talk to you.” Chan doesn’t answer, only curls up further, drawing his hoodie over his head. I like a _boy_. _I like a boy_. I like _Minghao_.

He can hear the distinct sound of a kick against the door and he shakes so so so hard and the door bursts open and Minghao is standing there, still sopping wet, worry and anger shifting off him in waves. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until Minghao pulls him off the toilet seat and clutches him to his chest, calloused thumbs brushing the hot salty tears away from his cheeks. “Shh... Channie, it’s okay...” _But it’s **not** ; it’s **not okay**_ he wants to yell so he does, though when the words “But it’s not—” slip from his mouth Minghao tightens his grip around him and he screams the words into Minghao’s collarbones and he’s so warm and comforting and _beautiful_ and Chan cries more until the words he wants to say and the words he doesn’t want to say blur into an ugly mess (an ugly mess, just like him). “I... Please, I... ( _I love you_ ) please don’t ( _please don’t leave me_ )... go... ( _please don’t let me go_ )” he whispers (he thinks).

The restroom lights flicker. He doesn’t know if he imagines it or— whatever, but Minghao curls his fingers into the back of his uniform blazer and replies,a whisper of “Why would I ever let you go?”

Minghao holds him until he stops. They tidy up his books and when they get home, when they get to the safety of his bedroom Minghao tapes his textbooks shut and tucks him into bed. “No studying tonight,” he tells Chan. “Sleep. I'll tell my mum I'm staying here.” and Chan means to mumble “okay” but it comes out as “I love you” for some reason. Minghao looks at him sadly and Chan thinks he sees some beautiful angel standing with his arms crossed by his bedroom door when Minghao brushes his palm across his forehead and whispers, “I know.”

He dreams of Minghao, of reciprocated love and warmth and best friends and suddenly he crashes down to the ground and the illusions of love and peace and _it will all be okay, Chan_ shatter into a million pieces that slip through his fingers, that cut open his palms when he tries to collect them. _No no no no no nononono_ , he screams and screams and screams ‘til he’s not sure what he’s screaming and he’s falling again; his heart rattles in his ribcage and he’s staring at the dark popcorn ceiling of his bedroom. Minghao is sleeping soundly on a pullout bed beside him and Chan’s hand reaches out without his permission but he stops before he can shake his best friend awake.

In the morning he feels like he’s gotten less sleep than he does when he studies all night. He tried to pull the tape off his textbooks, tried to switch on the lamp, tried to study but it _didn’t work_ and he scratched at the tape until his fingers ached and the tape still did not, still does not budge. He sits at his desk and sometime in the middle of the night Minghao wakes up and leads Chan back to his bed where he doesn’t sleep until strips of sunlight paint the floor.

“I love you,” he tells Minghao when they’re brushing their teeth side by side and Minghao spits out the toothpaste, rinses his mouth and replies with “I know” and that hurts, it hurts a lot and he almost chokes on his toothbrush because it hurts so much. But when he glances at Minghao he looks so so sad and Chan wonders—

When it’s two days later, he walks to school and Minghao is not sitting on the stone ledge where he always sits and waits and he does not see Minghao in any of his classes and he does not see Minghao when he goes to lunch and everyone is chatting as usual so he supposes Minghao is probably just sick or something. But Minghao does not come to school for a week after and on the eighth day of wondering where his best friend went he asks Mark if he’s seen Minghao recently and Mark cocks his head and answers with something Chan never ever ever wanted to hear:

“He moved to America with his boyfriend. You didn’t know?”

_Moved to **America**. With his **boyfriend**. You **didn’t** know? **You** didn’t know?_

**_You didn’t know?_ **

When he goes home it’s at a normal time and his mother glances at him curiously because Chan usually stays at the library until at least 5 pm to study and he’s never been home at— 3:47, the clock says. He presses his lips together.

“Did you know that Minghao moved to America?” he asks finally. That’s when she notices that her son’s eyes are rimmed red, veins standing out stark against the white. His hands are clenched into fists and he’s shaking like he’s cold but it’s the spring, it’s warm outside. “Did you, eomma?”

She bites her lip. They’ve grown distant. He can feel it when she hesitates and he wants to blame someone, wants to blame something (it’s all because of them, all because of their expectations that he shuts himself in his room to study study study) and he is so wound up and tired of everything and he begs her not to say it— “He... he didn’t tell you?” is what she responds with finally, (she doesn’t hear his silent pleas and they really _have_ grown distant) and it’s a question Chan’s been hearing all too much today when he asked all of Minghao’s friends if they _knew_. _He didn’t tell you? You didn’t know? I thought he would’ve told **you** , of all people. He told all of us. He told **all of us**. **He told all of us**_. She turns the stove off and brushes her hands against her skirt and sits down at the kitchen table, gesturing for Chan to sit too. He doesn’t.

“He told me...” she rests her chin on her palm, thinking back, “when he came back that one night with you.” There is ice running through Chan’s veins and his mouth is dry like the Sahara and he clenches and unclenches and clenches his fists. That night... when he told Minghao he loved him. When he first came to terms with himself and— and Minghao had to go and do this— he just had to go and do this, his chest feels as if someone cleaved an axe or a knife or something through it and the pain grows so large even the tips of his hair hurt.

“Why didn’t you... tell me?” he breathes. “He was my... best friend.” _He was my best friend. He was my **best friend**. I **loved** him_.

His mother swallows. “He told me that... you knew already, when I asked if he told you. I thought you knew... all this time. I had thought... I thought you were just taking it really well, I... had no idea you didn’t... didn’t know.” And Chan can’t believe it, he can’t he can’t he can _not_ and the pain ebbs slowly and it feels like it’s going away but he flinches when it comes back full force and he feels like he’s going to (I don’t know, he doesn’t know) cry or something.

No, he’s not going to cry. He swipes the heels of his palm at his eyes as the tears build up and blur his vision. His mother rises from her seat but he backs away from her until his shoulder blades crash against the beautiful display case with china plates and china cups and all beautiful things his mother collects and admires and polishes with a soft cloth. It’s not fair. He wishes he could seal the things he thinks of as beautiful in a case so they’d never break, so they’d never leave him or hurt him or make him want to claw his heart out of his chest. Beautiful things like his love, beautiful things like his best friend, beautiful things like Xu Minghao. Or maybe he should lock all the ugly things in, like his heart, like his goddamned feelings, like himself so they wouldn’t come out and hurt him over and over and over and over. “D-don’t...” his voice rises as he makes out his mother coming closer with a worried expression on her face. “Don’t touch me! Don’t don’t don’t _don’t_ —” and it works because she flinches like he’s slapped her and he continues to splutter horrible words he never ever ever would say as his parents’ angel boy.

The front door clicks open and Chan sinks to his knees and stops trying to wipe his tears away, lets them just fall onto the laminated wooden panels. He can see his mother’s beautiful face twisted with something as she reaches in to hug him but he doesn’t let himself fall into her like he let himself fall into Minghao because he will never ever ever let himself be consoled like that again.

Soon all he’s doing is heaving breaths and his father comes into the room and he stares at Chan like he’s never seen him cry and Chan realises that his dad _has_ never seen him cry and his mother too because he always doesn’t let himself cry in front of them, only in the safety of a locked bedroom and pillow to muffle the wrenching sobs. Though, he’s never really cried over any _one_ before, only numbers on sheets of paper. It’s a thousand times worse now.

“I'm sorry I didn’t tell you,” his mother says quietly and Chan bites his lips so stop himself from stupid crying but his teeth just pierce the dry skin and blood leaks into his mouth, salty and coppery. It coats his tongue and his teeth and his throat and he chokes and dry-retches onto the polished floor. “I'm so so sorry, Channie.”

The clock strikes 4 and the chirp of the old grandfather clock seems to snap him out of whatever he’s in and he stands up and walks into his room, bolting it shut. Pushes a chair up against the handle for good measure. And he sits down, takes his textbooks out and finds he can peel the tape off now and he studies and studies and studies until his mind is filled with words and stories and stats of China’s bloody history that he doesn’t think of Minghao anymore. He falls asleep to the legend of the cow herder and the silk weaver (and he longs for a story like that, so perfect and heartbreaking and wonderful like that) but when he wakes up there are fresh tears on his pillowcase and nothing in his heart.

Months and months later he gets a letter in the mail and it’s from _your best friend_ and he doesn’t think twice (he’s lying, he sits in his bedroom and clutches the letter until the brown envelope is crumpled and splotchy with tear stains) before passing it through the paper shredder. But the sticky part of the envelope catches in the teeth of the shredder and it doesn’t become curly strips of paper like it should have and when he empties it out a scrap of paper floats to the ground and it reads: _I miss you, Ch_ —

Every 8th of every month following he gets a letter. From _your best friend_. Every month he puts it through the shredder, and makes sure the stupid stupid letter is paper mush before he throws it out. But he keeps the scrap that says _I miss you, Ch—_. He tells himself to throw it away but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to.

Then one year after he’s turning seventeen and he plans to spend his birthday studying because he’s got an important exam coming up but the doorbell rings and no one is home but him so he drags himself away from his English textbook and goes to open the door and—

“Chan.”

It’s Minghao and some other guy and Chan slams the door in his face fast (but not fast enough that his best friend sees his eyes filling with tears behind thin wire-rimmed glasses). The door’s not even locked when he drops to his knees and sits against the door, tears wetting his hoodie sleeve and heart fluttering like it’s finally alive, awake after a year of sleep. He supposes it’s kind of like that, anyway.

Minghao knocks on the door and keeps knocking and keeps asking Chan to open the door “please, Chan, let me in,” and he doesn’t answer but he listens and he can hear when Minghao sits down at the foot of the door. “Chan... Chan, please listen to me... Channie, I'm so sorry I left. Chan, please... please, let me in... I thought we were... best friends?”

And to that Chan replies, “we were, weren’t we.” and he congratulates himself on saying that without stumbling over the words but he reaches up and locks the door and swings the chain lock on for good measure and crumples in on himself. _We **were** the best of friends... but I had to go and love you and that’s what really chased you away, right? It was me. It **is** me._

_I love you._

_I know._

The days following that Minghao comes to his door every time the clock reads 8 am and rings the bell and begs Chan to let him in so he can explain. The school phones the house to ask why he hasn’t been showing up at school but he picks up and hangs up on them in one fluid motion and he buries himself in his studies even though he’s not sure he’ll _ever_ go back to school when Minghao is in China, and a chance that he’ll bump into his ex-best friend in the place he hates the most.

A few more days pass and his parents come home from their vacation and he escapes to the library (not the one he usually goes to, the one on Main street that is louder than the supermarket and more crowded than the subway station) to study all day instead. He gets up at 5, leaves at 5:30, sits on the library steps until it opens at 9 am and leaves when it closes at 9 pm. After a few days of this the kind old janitor lets him in at 6 and lets him stay past 10 (and he’s reminded of happier times, of strawberry ice cream and creaking swings). When he gets home at 11 his mother is asleep and his father is asleep and he sits and studies some more— before his alarm rings and he showers to begin another day. He hasn’t slept in so long.

Then one morning when he’s getting ready to creep out the kitchen lights are on and his mother is sitting at the table. She shoves a mug of hot chocolate over to him and waits until he sits and he doesn’t dare walk out now so he sits and drains half the mug. He’s got a tingling tongue when she begins to speak and he licks his lips and kind of listens.

“Your teachers say you haven’t been coming to school.” _Where have you been? She’s going to ask_ , he knows. “Where have you been going so early in the morning?” _There it is_. She furrows her eyebrows and stares at him suspiciously. “Have you been... going to see a— perhaps, girlfriend?”

He drops the mug and it splashes all over his lap and the handle chips off. He’s silent for a moment. _A **girlfriend**_. Then he throws his head back and laughs and steam rises off his body (from the hot chocolate) as he laughs and the pain shoots through his body from the middle of his chest like a year before. He laughs and laughs and sometime in between he begins to cry though he keeps laughing until he’s hiccuping and tears trail down his cheeks.

 _A **girl** friend_. “You think... I'd have a girlfriend, huh,” he chokes out through hiccups or laughs or sobs or something. “A girlfriend. How I wish I had a _girl_ friend.” he’s talking crazy now and his mother looks almost scared to touch him and she should be because the last time he was like this he had yelled to not touch him. “A _girlfriend_.” he spits out the word like rotten food in his mouth. “If I had a girlfriend none of it would... be... like this, would it?” He tips his head back and stares at the idly spinning fan, the kitchen light. The words he says next leave a bitter taste in his mouth and when he looks back on himself he probably shouldn’t have said it but he’s so so tired of everything and he doesn’t wait to mull over the words before he says them. He’s in a frenzy and he’s fisting at the white shirt which clings to his chest with hot cocoa and he doesn’t notice when his father walks in, awakened by the din. “But... to have a girlfriend... I'd have to be attracted to girls, wouldn’t I? To have a girlfriend I'd have to not be in stupid love with my best friend, _wouldn’t it_?”

Then all is silent.

And he’s choking suddenly when his father steps over and grips the neck of his shirt and heaves him up, the table tipping back and his mother’s coffee splashing onto the floor. His mother screams something but everything blurs except for his father’s angry face. “In _love_ with your _best friend_?” he screams and Chan pulls a crooked smile and laughs in his father’s face.

“Yeah, my _best friend_. The _nice boy_ ,” he mimics his mother when she met Minghao for the first time. “ _Xu Minghao_ , if you remember him—” He’s cut off when he’s punched or kicked or something in the stomach. It hurts, but he’s been hurt far worse and by someone he never thought would hurt him so he doesn’t even flinch when he opens his mouth and tastes copper on his teeth. He’d always known his father hated those homos, polluting our world, _fucking_ **_fags_**.

“You _fucking_ **_faggot_**!” his father spits and punches him again and Chan coughs blood, dribbling down his chin. His mother screams for them to stop. “You _devil incarnate_ — you, you—! You _sinner_!” His back knocks against the China cabinet hard and the glass sprays inward into the beautiful white bowls and cups and a few wedge into his back. It’s a horrible melody, glass breaking. His mother is crying, wailing, and he’s not sure if she’s crying for him or the broken China that lays at his feet, that is embedded into his skin.

He only laughs more. “How do you feel, father? Your _beautiful angel boy_ loves a _boy_. A _boy_.” he drops to the ground and lands painfully on his ankle with a crunch and yellowish bruises bloom across his skin when his father lifts a foot and kicks him in the stomach, in his shins, in the chest, over and over and over and over and over. They lessen for a moment when his mother grabs his father’s arm and begs him to stop but he just throws her aside and Chan sees red but it’s hard to stand up so he shouts, “I love a _boy_ , father,” and every time he says that his father gets more and more angry but he doesn’t hurt his mother anymore so it’s okay if he’s hit and his mother isn’t. And it’s strange to him that the more he says it the more he himself believes it, with every hit, every kick his father delivers as he repeats it again and again. _I'm in love with a boy_. “Can you believe it, father?”

He’s curled up on the cold foyer floor when his father finally stops to unlock the door, and his chest suddenly hurts a lot and he peels open his eyes to see him mother. And he mumbles, “I'm so sorry,” and she begins to cry and he begins to cry _finally_ and his father kicks him one more time for good measure, right in the sternum, right beside his heart, and throws him out into the snow. He’s so cold even ice feels hot.

“Can you believe it?” he whispers, again, as the door slams shut, and no, no he can’t.

When he cracks his eyes open once more he’s shivering but he’s burning up and his wounds all sting like bees attacking his insides and he hisses in pain when Minghao’s fingers clench into his shoulders and shake him as he pats Chan’s face and asks, over and over, “Are you awake? Wake up! Oh, Channie, what the hell happened to you? Chan!” Everything is hazy, even Minghao’s cotton-candy hair— pink and blue. It’s beautiful. Just like him.

His jaw spasms and he bites down on his tongue and fresh blood paints the insides of his mouth. “What happened to me, indeed,” he manages, and Minghao flinches when he tries to lift his head but it just lolls back, his neck jelly. Every breath is a struggle and his entire body feels like a plastic bag with broken glass inside and he can only feel pain pain pain and two pairs of warm hands brushing over his body, one is almost hesitant while the other presses into the bruises as if pushing buttons. ... _two pairs of hands?_ he wonders. He’s too tired, too hurt to breathe or think— so he doesn’t.

“Oh my god, Chan... what happened?” Minghao asks (it sounds like a rhetorical question at this point) again as he gathers Chan into his chest and Chan lets him because he will only ever let Minghao hold him like this but he’s a little bit harsh and there’s something like a splintering noise and he howls as his side flares up in red-hot pain. Then there’s a voice that is definitely not Minghao’s but it’s beautiful and warm just like Minghao’s if not a little deeper and sweet and wispy, honeysuckle blossoms, hazy in the fog, wet with morning dew.

“Don’t jostle him like that, Xiaoming.” he feels a warm hand touch his cheek. _Xiaoming_. Nobody calls Minghao by any nicknames. Chan’s never even heard Minghao’s mother call him _Xiaoming_. But this guy, this _person_ — he calls Minghao _Xiaoming_ like he’s been doing for years and years and _eternities_. A hand brushes over his forehead like Minghao did the night when he _left_ and Chan feels tendrils of sleep tug at his mind, and he welcomes it because it doesn’t feel like he’s sinking into unconsciousness, but more like into an ocean of warm black water that silences everything he doesn’t want to hear.

_Can you believe it?_

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep but when Minghao’s warm hands brush open his eyes he feels like he’s been sleeping for years, but in the good way. But then he shifts and pain shoots through his body like it wakes up with him and he lets out a whimper. Minghao grabs his hand and holds on tight, with both hands. Then he tries to lift his head because he feels another pair of gentle hands applying salve to his side— where all the pain seems to stem from now, rather than the left side of his heart. It’s soothing and cold but he catches sight of red red lots and lots of red that can only be blood (his blood) and his vision spins but the man whose voice is like honeysuckle on a foggy morning hisses “don’t let him see” and Minghao presses Chan’s head down against the pillow.

But he sees, he sees what they don’t want to see, he sees what _that man_ (he can’t bear to call that man his father, his _dad_ ) did to him— what was pale, unblemished skin is now splotchy with bruises of all colours and shapes and sizes, patches of blue and purple and yellow and green. There are cuts that span across the center of the biggest ones where his skin just gave up and split, oozing dark red. And his chest is bare so he can see how the last kick to his chest is an angry red and fans out to pink in the shape of a heart. How appropriate.

And his veins are suddenly filled with fiery energy and he forces himself up to his elbows though Minghao forces him back down and the angry cuts on his shins and waist begin to bleed sluggishly through thick mint green gel. “Don’t— don’t _do_ that, Channie,” Minghao grits out, waving his hand and then Chan can’t sit up because there’s something like invisible hands holding his shoulders down. But he struggles, trust him, he struggles— strains and wiggles and Minghao clenches his eyes shut in concentration or something. “Sleep, Chan,” Minghao says and even before he says Chan’s name his eyelids are already drooping and he sinks into the black ocean but he struggles, kicks at the water but it drags him down anyway.

He flickers in and out of consciousness several times. The invisible hands have disappeared but the energy that filled his veins for a brief moment is gone and he only can open his eyes and glance around the room before they feel heavy again. Every time he wakes up, the sky is different. He can’t tell how long it’s been, but the pain in his body lessens every time he closes his eyes.

When he wakes up one more time all that’s left of burning pain is a warm feverish heat and both Minghao and the other man is hovering over his face. He can sit up, so he does, and the multi coloured bruises are just hazy pink shapes on his skin. There’s a bandage around his chest, band-aids covering where he knows the worst of the bruises (the ones with the cuts) are. But he’s not in pain anymore. Not much, anyway.

“Chan...” Minghao says softly as if he was speaking to a frightened animal and Chan jolts when a warm hand touches his shoulder but it’s not Minghao, it’s the other man and he smiles so warmly he’s hit with a feeling of deja vu for some reason. _Listen to your best friend_ , he mouths. He brings him legs up and tucks them under him, criss-cross applesauce like his teachers in kindergarten taught him. Kindergarten. How he longs to return to those times. “Chan, what... what happened last week?”

So it’s been a week, huh? Chan thinks and his lips curl into a twisted grimace. He swallows, and swallows again. He takes a long time to answer.

“You don’t... have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Minghao tells him but Chan pushes his hand away and swallows, again. And again. His tongue, his throat, the insides of his cheeks dry up when he thinks back to _then_. He had laughed in the face of fear but now, his hands fall lax on his lap and tears spring up hot in his eyes. He had laughed when that man, that man his father became when he was angry, when his father choked him and punched him and kicked him for— for liking boys. For loving his best friend.

“I... I—” he sets his jaw firmly when his voice shakes. “I told him I loved— _love_ —” he chokes here “—you. I told him I love you and he got... upset.” _More than upset_ , he thinks, _much more than ‘upset’_ but he’s sure Minghao understands what he means when his fist clenches around Chan’s hands for a second before he springs off the side of the bed with murder in his footsteps, murder in his fists, murder in his beautiful eyes and murder in his voice that growls “ _Does he know what he’s done?_ ”. And _no, don’t, don’t go_ , Chan wants to call out, and he reaches out to grab at Minghao’s long shirt because he knows what Minghao is going to do but he’s a second too slow and the fabric scrabbles in his grip. But the other man jumps up and grabs Minghao’s hand and they stare at each other without speaking, it’s like when people fight with their eyes. Eventually though, Minghao loses because he slackens against the other’s chest and he hugs him close like Minghao did— _does_ for Chan.

And when Minghao sinks down on the woven bamboo chair with the big blue pillows the other man climbs up onto the bed in front of Chan and holds out his arms and Chan bursts into tears for some reason (because he’s never been treated so kindly by a stranger, not even treated so kindly by his own father who regarded him in disappointment when he brought home bad grades). And when he falls forward, tears already dripping from his eyes onto the white-and-blue bedspread, he’s there to hold him.

“Don’t ever let yourself get hurt by him ever again,” Minghao says sometime in the middle of the night, when they’re all pretending to sleep (trying to sleep) but not actually. “Promise me, Channie.”

And he promises.

_Do you know what you’ve done?_

“I'm Wen Junhui,” the other man says suddenly one morning, when Chan limps into the kitchen after changing the wraps around his ribs and ankle. “I've never introduced myself, right? And you know Xiaoming.” He’s standing by the stove and there’s a delectable aroma that reminds Chan of his childhood (of chocolate, of dried fruit and honey, of sugar and of glaze). Chan nods, and sits, and he smiles a little because he finally has a name to put with the man who helped to save his life. _Junhui. Junhui. Wen Junhui_.

Weeks and weeks pass and Chan stays with Minghao and Junhui and their small studio apartment which seems bigger than it actually is, with messily painted walls and brightly coloured pillows everywhere. It’s like a perfect home, with Minghao, the night owl and not-morning person and Junhui who goes to sleep no later than 10pm and wakes up before Minghao and Chan. He sleeps on the couch, which is softer and much more comfortable than your average couch. He always wakes up to the smell of food cooking, and steps into the bathroom to change his bandages (which he’s gotten rather good at) and with every passing day the bruises fade and the cuts seal up and his skin returns to the smooth white it was before.

He stays with Minghao and Junhui and he learns what it means to relax, what it means to laze around, what it means really to have free time. He doesn’t have to study every day like he did when he was in high school so he revisits the days when he was in just first grade and takes up dancing at the local studio— _Reach For The Hoshis_ , it’s called. The owner’s name is Soonyoung but he goes by Hoshi (which means star in Japanese, he tells Chan). He’s Korean too. It’s nice to speak to someone in his mother language.

His 18th birthday is possibly his happiest— he comes home from the studio, hair damp from his shower, and even though it’s only two the “surprise, happy birthday Channie!” are beautiful and loud. He’s dragged to the couch and they eat Junhui’s birthday cake mix cake with their hands and it’s messy and amazing. They sing him happy birthday and he laughs and Minghao gets a photo of him laughing and he looks ugly but he can’t bring himself to care. Then their neighbour, Yanan, knocks on the door with a part-eaten Costco lasagna and asks to join the party. So they have meatless lasagna for dinner and cake for dessert and then they pull out plastic shot glasses and take shots of champagne (and pineapple fizzy water for Chan) and when Chan asks “why champagne?” Junhui laughs and replies with “why not?” It’s only four people but he’s so warm when he finally drifts off to sleep, foot going numb under Yanan’s neck.

One night he falls asleep watching studio ghibli movies and wakes to the sound of the headboard knocking against the bedroom wall, to stifled moans of “oh god, _Xiaoming_...” echoing through the apartment. He glances at the clock and it’s 00:08, 06/10— Junhui’s birthday. He’s not sure when he comes to the realization that Minghao and Junhui were dating but it comes slowly, creeping up and they don’t spare any love for him either so it doesn’t really matter at this point. He crawls off the couch and knocks on the bedroom door, two sharp tmp tmp’s and calls “people are trying to sleep!” and he can imagine Minghao and Junhui flushing in the darkness of the bedroom. He grins and pads back to the sofa and pulls the blankets over his knees, turning the TV back on.

After that, he’s witness to more of Minghao and Junhui’s PDA— sweet good morning kisses, Junhui pulling Minghao onto his lap when they watch TV, feeding each other food. Well, they feed Chan too. Everyone feeds everyone. When Yanan comes over they feed him too. But he cracks the door open at 4 pm sharp to see something less than appropriate happening on the couch—on the _couch_ , where he _sleeps_ and practically _lives_ —he yells and Minghao yells and Junhui yells and Chan shuts his eyes and covers them for good measure until he hears the bedroom door click shut.

An evening a month later he’s seated at the kitchen island reading _Flowers For Algernon_ and sipping at a yogurt-and-honey milkshake when the doorbell rings. Junhui goes to answer it. Chan keeps reading, but he pauses when he hears Junhui’s angered voice— and he freezes, spine ramrod straight when he hears _his_ voice. “ _He’s here, isn’t he?_ ” his father’s voice. “ _You’re housing a **fag** , you know?_” No, not his father. “ _Huh? You don’t **care**? But he’s a fucking **faggot**. Wait, are you one of those **disgraces** too? **Disgusting**. I can’t believe you._ ” It’s not his father. It’s the voice of the man that hurt him and the blender cup slips from Chan’s grip with a bang.

Minghao stumbles from the bedroom, eyes still crusted with sleep and Chan shivers, falling out of his seat. “M-Minghao... Don’t— d-don’t let him in... Don’t, please don’t pleasedon’t please—” And he doesn’t have to explain because Junhui’s voice pitches high and there’s a sickening crack. And another, louder. “ _Lee-xiansheng, take one step into this house and I will do worse than just that_ ,” he hears Junhui warn, anger turning his beautiful, sweet voice into something dark and horrible. “ _You can’t walk up to my door and demand anything. Chan is safe here, in contrary to **your** disgusting household._ ”

Chan shakes and Minghao holds him gently until the door slams and Junhui punches the wall so hard the apartment shivers. “That... disgusting man,” he’s seething when he walks back into the kitchen. There’s a bruise on his cheek. Chan’s eyes widen and he begins to cry harder as he stumbles toward Junhui and brushes his fingers over the purpling bruise. “I, I'm— I-I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry J-Junhui, it’s all my fault I'm so sorry you got hurt I'm so sor—” he stutters, hiccuping, breaths coming fast and hard. Faster and faster and faster and too fast but he can’t stop himself from crying because—

“Hey, it’s okay, Chan,” Junhui says, voice back to the musky flowery warm it used to be. “I hurt him back, this is only a little bruise. Hey, Chan? _Channie_ , listen to me, it’s okay. You’re important to me, for you and Minghao I'd rather get punched a million times than see you guys cry.”

But his father keeps coming and one time he’s home alone because Minghao and Junhui are on a date for their third anniversary and his father keeps pounding on the door until Chan is sure the door will break open. He turns up the volume on his show but the knocks just come harder (faster, louder, angrier) as he shouts “ _Chan! Chan, you **faggot** , open the door! Open the **fucking** door! Damn, you’ve forgotten how to **respect** your parents..._ ” So he huddles under his blankets and breathes in the scent of lemon detergent and counts the _bam bam bam bam bam’s_.

He gets to fifty-seven before there’s another muffled voice and his father yells, “ _Mind your own business, you fucker!_ ” and the other voice replies with, “ _Sorry, sir, but I've been trying to sleep and your knocking and yelling is rather loud_.” It’s flippant, teasing, and Chan’s breath catches. “ _Besides, my neighbour’s business is mine and Chan doesn’t seem to want to answer the door._ ” And Chan sobs in relief because _Yanan Yanan **Yanan**_. Then there’s another _bam_ and Chan freezes in terror— _what if he hits **Yanan**?_ And he trips over himself as he rushes to the door and flings it open, words tearing out of his throat. “Leave! Leave this place and don’t come back!” he screams. His father’s eyes turn to him and they are red with anger and Chan is terrified (“ _Don’t back down, even if you’re scared_ ,” was what his mother told he was little. It’s ironic that he thinks back to his mother when he cowers under his father’s glare) but he forces it down and he reaches for Yanan’s arm. But, but he can’t breathe again when his father snatches up his shirt and throws him against the wall.

“You...! Dirty...! Whore! You whore!” _I'm not a whore_ , Chan wants to say, but every word is punctuated with a kick and it’s like he’s back to that time a year ago when he curled up on the floor and laughed as his father broke him into pieces. But he’s not laughing this time, because he can’t stop it, can’t stop his father from hurting him.

_Don’t ever let yourself get hurt by him again. Promise me, Channie._

_I promise._

_I'm sorry, Minghao_ , he cries. The kicks are sharper and harder and more furious and he can feel his bones fracture under his father’s hands. He can’t breathe, god, he can’t breathe and Yanan is yelling and his father is yelling and fuck he can’t breathe. “I bet you just sold your damn dirty body to get that stupid boy to house you, didn’t you? Sold your body to everyone in this fucking complex so they’d all be on your _faggot_ side, huh? You disgusting whore! God, I raised you and this is how you repay me— by being a fucking faggot and a _whore_ on top of that!” He kneels and digs his fingernails into Chan’s sides and Chan screams and screams as his father slams him down on the unforgiving floor. _I'm so sorry._

Then someone pulls him off but Chan doesn’t see who, the corners of his vision blurring black. “I hope you fucking _die_ this time!” It’s crazed and loud and echoes in his skull and he would shiver but it hurts, everything hurts so much and he can’t see or breathe and he doesn’t know if he’s, like, crying or breathing or feeling or whatever. He almost doesn’t see when Minghao kneels beside him, orange hair slicked back and lips curled in a terrified grimace, and “oh God... Chan...” is the last thing he hears before everything goes black.

He dreams of worried frowns and gloved hands and the wailing of police cars and the red and white of an ambulance. He floats in a black abyss and he’s being tied by wires that keep tightening and pain attacks him from all angles and every time he writhes the wires tighten. _I hope you fucking die this time!_ rings in his ears. Bland voices make up the background noise and at one point he thinks he hears his mother scream but it’s faraway and empty and anyway, why would his _mother_ be screaming?

When he wakes up it’s not to the midnight blue ceiling of Minghao and Junhui’s bedroom, but to stark white tile. The stink of antiseptic permeates the air. The sunlight that peers into room is too bright and he moans before shutting his eyes tight but God, even that hurts and it takes a moment before he even realizes there’s a weight on his left thigh. A head of mousy brown hair. The mousy brown hair of his _mother_.

He shifts his leg and his mother moves, blinking once before startling— “Chan!” She breathes a soft ‘oh’ before stiltedly embracing him, as if she hasn’t hugged anyone in a while. _She’s thinner_ , he notices. “Chan, I... I'm so glad you’re awake, Chan.” She tugs her phone out of her pocket and dials a number. “Wen-xiansheng, Xu-xiansheng, he’s, he’s—” She lets out a sob. “He’s awake, he’s _finally_ awake...” and she says this like he’s been dead or in a coma or something but he looks down and there’s a tube leading from his stomach and an oxygen mask hangs on the side of the bed.

And when the door opens Junhui and Minghao look like they haven’t been sleeping for a year with bags darker than ink beneath their eyes. Minghao’s hair is dyed blue, Junhui’s reddish pink. Their eyes widen when they see him awake. They look... older. “Oh my god, Chan...” Minghao presses his hand to his lips but begins to cry anyway and Chan, on instinct, reaches out but he can’t get up further than the hospital bed has propped him. “You didn’t keep your promise, you, _you_ —! Oh god, I am, so lucky, God...”

Then Chan begins to cry “I’m so sorry, Minghao, Junhui, I’m so sorry,” because Minghao’s voice cracks and he begins full-on sobbing and he stumbles forward until he’s wetting Chan’s hospital gown rather than the sleeve of his denim jacket. Junhui looks weary but he offers Chan a smile and moves to stand next to him, hold his wrapped hand. He opens his mouth and coughs and it’s the wracking kind of cough that shifts his insides and he spits out blood at the end and his mother draws in a shaky breath. “H-how... long has it been?” he asks and his words are strained, wispy and quiet. And Junhui heaves a sigh.

“Eight weeks, Chan. It’s been eight weeks.” And he blinks once, blinks twice, before Junhui kisses him gentle on the forehead and whispers, “I'm so glad you’re alive.”

Another eight weeks fly by in a blur and he’s discharged from the hospital—he makes friends with one of the nurses, an energetic young man named Jackson who tells him stories about life in America—and though he’s sitting in a wheelchair because his “bones have been fractured too many times to risk standing”, And though he’s wrapped almost head to toe in bandages and though he’s sure the smell of the hospital has sunk into his bones, he’s finally out, out of the hospital.

It takes another three months and visits to the doctor’s every other week but soon he’s stripped of most of his bandages and he can ditch the wheelchair. He stumbles and bumps into things and knocks things over with his crutches but he’s so glad he doesn’t have to rely on Junhui or Minghao to push him around anymore.

His father is serving two years in jail back in Korea and it’s unlikely Chan will ever cross paths with the horrible man again, his mother tells him firmly. She sells the house they used to live in (“there are too many horrible memories here,” she says, trailing her finger over the broken china cabinet) and she gives Junhui and Minghao and Chan half of the money and takes half back to Korea with her. (“I'm getting old and I don’t want to burden you. Please, find yourselves a nicer, bigger apartment, fit for three growing young men.”) So they do, they find a new apartment in the heart of Shanghai. It’s closer to Junhui’s workplace, and it’s a solid six hundred square feet that there’s so much space even all of the pillows (Chan finds out they’ve got more inside the closets when they pack to move) can’t fill it up.

But they make it homey, with vases of flowers that Junhui seems to kill the moment he touches them (“But we have Chan to bring the back alive, right?” he smiles, when Chan waters the thing and it blooms white-and-pink again). Pots of succulents and cacti line the sills of the high windows and there’s at least one pillow or rug per square metre. Everything is coloured, even the fridge— Chan wonders how Minghao managed to find a pastel purple _refrigerator_. They sell the creaky double bed and buy a springy confetti memory foam mattress and big rainbow sleeping bags and an electric blanket which they lay on the loft floor and cover in throw pillows and stuffed animals. It’s like the bedroom of a child. A Sunday morning is dedicated to painting the loft a dark midnight blue and pasting glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling, and Minghao shrieks when Junhui streaks his brush across Minghao’s chest which leads to a paint fight and Chan is glad they covered their “bed” with a paint cover before they started. Every evening, they take turns piggy-backing Chan up onto the loft and one time they have a huge argument about who is going to carry “their precious Channie” up into their “soft beautiful heaven” and Chan sighs and climbs up the damned ladder himself.

When Chan is twenty he goes back to the dance studio and is almost sent back to the hospital at how hard Soonyoung hugs him, _goddamit_. He starts dancing again and even though he hurts in weird places sometimes and his stamina is much less than it was before, it’s really great to dance again— and eight months in Soonyoung offers him a job teaching alongside Sicheng as a children’s dance teacher and he almost sends _Soonyoung_ to the hospital with how hard he hugs him.

They’ve lived in the new apartment for three years when Minghao offhandedly asks Chan if he wants to date them— both of them, both Minghao and Junhui and Chan almost drops the knife on his foot. Chan is twenty one and his wounds are faint memories and he works at Soonyoung’s dance studio as a part-time dance teacher, he’s got good friends in Yanan and Sicheng, and Junhui works late hours at the office so Chan began to learn how to cook (because they’ve got a vow to never let Minghao near a stove after he burned air).

It goes sort of like this— “You ever dream about marrying Junhui?” he asks, and Minghao crunches his apple a few more times before replying with, “Yeah, but not in the near future.” which Chan “hmms” to and continues to chop the white lotus root into little cubes. Then Minghao goes “‘Ave you heard of ‘polyamory’?” and doesn’t really wait for Chan to reply before saying “Jun and I have been wanting to ask someone to join our relationship... we’ve known them for a long time but Jun is still too much of a wimp to ask. What do you think we should do?” Chan feels his heart pang as he wonders who Minghao’s talking about: the year after he was sent to the hospital he stayed at home all day, and he knows they made friends other than him but— “We really love him,” Minghao hums dreamily, chin on his palm as he finishes off the apple, core and all. Chan grimaces and shrugs, tipping the lotus root into the simmering pot. “Just tell him? If he’s known you guys a really long time I don’t think he’d just up and leave you because you ask him out.” He frowns. “But homosexual and poly... are you sure you won’t get, what, beaten up? It’s _China_ , not like, Canada or the States.” And this prompts a laugh from Minghao, who chuckles: “Junnie protects us both.”

A moment passes and Minghao gets up to grab another apple from the wire bowl, stalking up behind and looping his arms around Chan’s waist. “So... Lee Chan, if I were to, say, ask you out, would you say yes?”

And then Chan drops the knife into the sink and it cleaves a mark in the bluish metal and he whirls around so fast Minghao drops his apple and it rolls under the lavender fridge. Minghao pouts, Chan shrieks “what the hell?” and Junhui opens the door to a pot bubbling over and his boyfriend and his roommate making out against the fridge. No, boyfriend and other boyfriend, he corrects after, after he steams like the pot before Minghao tells him that he “just went ahead because someone is too big of a scaredy-cat to ask his friend of four years out, dammit”.

Chan smiles and he’s so soft oh my god so Junhui tames the pot before pecking him on the lips. When they go to sleep instead of three separate sleeping bags they zip them all together and Minghao lies spread out starfish-style on top of Chan and Junhui and they fall asleep like that, electric blanket humming under their backs, fake stars glowing softly in the darkness.

He wakes up to Minghao curled up at the foot of the “bed” and warm fingers tangled in his and it’s a sunday so Junhui doesn’t have to work. He snuggles up against Junhui’s chest and stares until he wakes up and then he smiles and says “I love you, Junhui” and Junhui is silent because ...wow— and suddenly Minghao jumps on top of both of them and yells “I love you both too!” and Junhui finally comes to his senses and repeats “I love you all” and it’s just... so amazing and wonderful to wake up to the both of them that Chan says “I want to wake up like this for the rest of my life” and both Minghao and Junhui agree.

_I love you._

_~~I know.~~ I love you too._

He’s twenty-one years old and he’s not his father’s angel boy anymore. Not anymore— but still, he’s his mother’s, even if she refuses to use ‘beautiful angel boy’ and instead calls him her ‘amazing, brave, handsome son do-you-want-to-see-a-photo trust-me-you-do no-sorry-he’s-taken-your-daughter-can’t-marry-him’—... or something along those lines. And he has two people who he loves more than anything and who love him more than anything and treat him like the angel he is.

When Chan was seventeen his father lost his child.

(That’s a loss on his father’s part, and he (and Junhui, and Minghao, and his mother all) just smiles when people risk pities glances at him because _they_ only know what he’s lost. They don’t know what he’s gained.)

“Can you believe it?”

Yes. Yes, he can.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @dumplingyin  
> twitter @yinsums
> 
> march 5, 2018: minor phrasing edits


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